Chapter 63: The First Advancement
The moment Malrik’s palm pressed against the crystal, emerald-green and black light erupted.
It exploded outward like a living thing, flooding the chamber in an instant. The radiance was so intense that the golden filigree along the walls seemed to darken, swallowed by the sheer force of the glow.
And then, Malrik felt it.
That same sensation he’d experienced during his Awakening. The pressure. The expansion. The feeling of something deep inside him cracking open and reforming.
But this time, it was greater.
Incomparably greater.
The pressure crushed down from all sides, yet instead of breaking him, it was forging him.
His mana reserves swelled beyond anything he’d felt before. His senses sharpened to an almost painful clarity—he could hear the faintest breath of every person in the room, feel the texture of the air against his skin, perceive the flow of ambient energy threading through the temple’s ancient stones.
And beneath all of it, his soul was growing.
It was unmistakable now—that invisible core of his existence expanding, thickening, becoming more substantial. Not just power. Presence. The weight of his own existence was increasing, and with it, his connection to the world around him.
Then the system appeared before his eyes.
[ Rank Advancement Requirements Completed. ]
[ Difficulty Rating: Hard ]
[ Calculating Promotion Rewards... ]
.....
[ Abnormal Completion Record Detected. ]
[ The user has exceeded the required completion standards. ]
[ Recalculating rewards... ]
[ Calculating Additional Rewards... ]
.....
[ Reward calculation complete. ]
[ All promotion rewards have been transferred to the user’s Inventory. ]
Malrik’s mind seized on the words.
Abnormal? Exceeded standards?
He replayed the requirements for Hard in his head. Forty Mortal-Rank souls. Ten Awakened-Rank souls.
....Could it be because of Lokris?
Lokris wasn’t Awakened anymore. The Hybrid had evolved in the middle of Bloodmire Forest, jumping from Rare★★★★★ to Epic★—and unexpectedly, from Awakened to Fallen.
Malrik’s eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked into place.
Hard required ten Awakened-Rank souls. I had nine Awakened-Rank souls... and one Fallen. The system counted Lokris because he was Awakened when I bound him. But now, he’s beyond that. He’s something else. Something the system didn’t account for in the requirements.
That’s why it’s recalculating. I didn’t just meet the requirements. I exceeded them.
The realization settled cold in his chest.
Lokris evolved. And because he’s bound to me, his growth counted toward my advancement. I completed Hard with a soul that wasn’t even part of the original equation.
He didn’t know what that meant for his rewards.
But the system was about to tell him.
Outside his own awareness, the scene had transformed.
The priest who had guided them stood frozen, astonishment written plainly across his face. He had witnessed countless Awakened-Rank advancements throughout his years in the temple, but never had one released such an overwhelming amount of mana.
Ronan’s golden eyes widened.
His usual carefree smile disappeared, replaced by a rare seriousness. He took a half-step back, his gaze fixed on Malrik as though afraid to miss even the smallest detail.
Eliza stood near the entrance, her hand resting on her dagger. Not drawn. Just there. A reflex born from years of knowing that power attracted danger. Her face betrayed nothing, but her eyes tracked every person in the room—watching for threats, doing exactly what she’d been trained to do.
Lilith watched in silence. And a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at her lips.
And the mana.
It surrounded Malrik in waves—thick, pure, raw mana that made the air itself feel heavy. Dark in nature, yes. But pure.
That was the crucial distinction.
In this world, dark mana was not inherently evil. It was simply another facet of the spectrum, like fire or water. Many of the Empire’s most respected mages wielded shadow-aligned magic without issue.
The only energy that the Temple truly condemned was demonic—the kind that reeked of corruption, the kind that consumed rather than flowed. The kind Lilith wielded.
This was different.
This was refined. Disciplined. The mark of noble bloodlines that had cultivated their power for generations.
And that was exactly why the priests and attendants who had gathered to witness the spectacle stared with such intensity.
Their eyes held awe.
But beneath the awe, there was calculation.
’A talent like this... appearing at our temple...’
’His armor is exquisite. Expensive. He comes from wealth.’
’But what house? Which family?’
They studied his face. His bearing. His clothes.
The armor was masterfully crafted—draconic scales, impossibly light, impossibly smooth. His features were sharp, refined. The kind of face that belonged in noble halls.
But no crest. No sigil. No identifying mark.
He was clearly a noble, but from which house?
The gathered priests exchanged glances. If he were from a minor house, they could recruit him. Mold him. Add his talent to the Temple’s growing influence.
If he were from a major house...
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
The light began to fade.
Slowly, the emerald and black radiance receded, retreating back into Malrik’s body like a tide pulling away from shore. The pressure in the chamber lessened, and the gathered onlookers released breaths they hadn’t realized they were holding.
Malrik lowered his hand from the crystal.
His palm tingled, but there was no pain. Just the lingering echo of that immense power settling into his bones.
He turned to face the room.
The priest who had guided them stepped forward. His earlier disdain was gone, replaced by something more cautious. More measured.
"Congratulations," the priest said, his voice carefully neutral. "You have successfully advanced to the Awakened rank. May Lumiel’s light guide your path."
He was about to continue—to offer some rehearsed blessing or formal greeting—when the crowd behind him parted.
A new figure stepped through.
He was a large man, portly, with soft features and black hair combed back with obvious care. His white robe was embroidered with gold thread so thick it seemed more metal than fabric. Every step he took was measured, deliberate, as if the ground itself should be grateful to bear his weight.
The priest who had been speaking immediately bent low.
"Archbishop Matthias!" he gasped, nearly tripping over his own robe. "We weren’t expecting—"
The Archbishop waved him silent.
His eyes were fixed on Malrik.
He approached slowly, studying him with the appraising gaze of a merchant examining a rare artifact. He took in the armor. The bearing. The cold, emerald eyes that met his without a flicker of deference.
But most of all, he searched for a crest. A symbol. A clue.
He found none.
When he was close enough to count the threads on Malrik’s collar, he smiled.
It was not a warm smile.
"Lumiel, the Holy Mother, has blessed us with a great talent today," Matthias said. His voice was smooth as oil, practiced as a sermon. "Young man, you must dedicate your power to the Temple. Serve Lumiel, and she will reward you beyond measure. Give thanks for this gift by offering your strength to the faithful."
He paused, letting the words settle.
His expression suggested the offer was not truly an offer. It was an expectation. A command dressed in velvet.
From his perspective, this was a simple matter. A young noble, certainly—the armor told him that much. But without a crest, without a visible house affiliation, he could only be from a minor family. Or perhaps a bastard of a greater one.
Either way, someone who would be honored by the Temple’s attention.
Malrik said nothing.
He met the Archbishop’s gaze with perfect stillness.
Matthias’s smile didn’t waver, but something behind his eyes flickered. He was used to people bowing. Used to nobles eager to curry favor with the Temple, to secure the blessing of the Holy Mother’s highest servants.
This young man didn’t look eager.
He looked bored.
"Sorry," Malrik said flatly. "Not interested."
He stepped past Matthias as if the man were a piece of furniture.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a choked laugh. Then another. Several of the gathered onlookers—commoners, not priests—failed to suppress their amusement at seeing the Archbishop ignored so casually.
Matthias’s face went through several colors in rapid succession. His mouth opened, then closed. His hands, clasped in front of him, tightened until his knuckles went white.
Before he could speak, Ronan stepped forward.
His grin was firmly back in place, but his eyes were sharp. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who had navigated court politics since childhood.
"My apologies, Archbishop Matthias," Ronan said, offering a slight bow that carried no real deference. "It seems my friend has no interest in joining your ranks. Terribly unfortunate, I’m sure."
Matthias forced his expression back into something resembling calm. But his jaw was tight. His eyes were cold.
"Indeed, Young Lord Ronan," he said slowly. "That is... regrettable."
His gaze slid back to Malrik’s retreating back.
"It appears the Ashmore Marquisate has acquired quite a talent. I do hope you appreciate what you’ve found."
Ronan’s grin widened.
"Oh, I do," he said. "More than you know."
Matthias’s smile froze.
For a long moment, the Archbishop stood there, watching them walk away. His face was calm. Composed.
But his eyes burned.
How dare he.
The thought echoed in his mind like a curse.
A nameless noble. No crest. No house to protect him. And he dares to embarrass me in my own temple?
His fingers twitched.
How does a mere noble dare humiliate me? I clawed my way to the Saint Rank, yet he looked at me as though I were beneath his notice.
His face grew redder with each passing second.
I will find out who he is. And when I do...
Matthias turned and walked back into the depths of the temple.
He did not speak another word.